Famous Essex Swans
The neighbouring towns of Manningtree and Mistley in Essex are famous for the swans that mass there in their hundreds, believed to have been attracted originally by waste products entering the river from the local maltings, which provided them with a rich and plentiful source of food. To ensure their continued presence a local volunteer group now feeds them with grain every day. Mistley has adopted the swan as its town symbol, and a pub in Manningtree is also named in its honour. Not only swans, but geese and other waterfowl are to be seen there, but I cannot recall ever seeing a duck . . . except for the one on the warning sign to drivers on the busy riverside road.
Remembering E.N.S.A from WW2
The lady with the barrel organ, collecting for an armed forces charity, and an accordianist who played
with E.N.S.A (The Entertainments National Service Association) entertained the crowds at
the Sheringham 1940s event, as the ENSA groups did during the war, helping to raise the morale
of our fighting forces, even if the initials were sometimes jokingly interpreted as ‘Every Night
Something Awful’, as this gentleman reminded me.
Vera Lynn, whose wartime hit, We’ll Meet Again, is currently at the top of the UK album charts
seventy yars after it was recorded, was a well known ENSA performer. I remember her
well and, like so many others of my generation, have happy memories of meeting her,
although that was after the war.
Has anyone else here any personal or handed-down memories of ENSA, or USA alternatives?
Back to Reality
Three housewives, all dressed up to go shopping, catch the eye of a couple sitting on a station bench while waiting for a train; another, wearing silk stockings with the traditional seam down the back, also carries that other important fashion accessory, a gas mask box, over her left shoulder, and a young lady posing for the camera provides a bit of eye-candy to boost the morale of the troops.
I took the photographs this weekend at Sheringham and Weybourne stations, at the restored North Norfolk steam railway’s 1940s themed event to mark 70 years since the outbreak of the second world war and the age of austerity that followed. I remember those stockings, and the frequently heard enquiry, ‘Are my seams straight’, when my mother was getting ready to go out. Any woman seen in public with bare legs caused raised eyebrows, but an eybrow pencil was sometimes called into use to draw a line down the back of legs lightly stained with coffee when stockings and other so-called luxuries became hard to find in the shops. The disguise didn’t fool anyone, but gave the ‘wearer’ the confidence of knowing that she had tried, and that others would see that she cared about her appearance in that ‘make-do-and-mend’ era, when ingenuity and attention to detail mattered so much more than it sometimes seems in today’s age of plenty.
Derbyshire and “The Compleat Angler”
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“The Compleat Angler” river in Derbyshire |
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| The River Dove has been celebrated for its trout fishing since the mid 17th century. The following extract is from The Compleat Angler, by Izaak Walton, published in 1653. Walton was a frequent visitor to the River Dove and Beresford Dale in Derbyshire was one of his favoured angling spots.“O Sir, doubt not but that Angling is an Art: is it not an Art to deceive a Trout with an artificial Flie? A Trout! That is more sharp sighted than any Hawk .. , and more watchful and more timorous than your high mettled Marlin is bold? …. doubt not therefore, Sir, but that Angling is an Art, and an art worth your learning: the Question is rather, whether you are capable of learning it? ” (quote reprinted from Waterscape.com)The future looked bleak when I took these pictures in 2002 after a pollution incident but I have since read that a thorough clean-up and limited restocking with young salmon in 2007 has produced encouraging results and the river is expected to return to full health in time. |
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Rope-making – an ancient craft
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On a visit to Derbyshire I learned that during the mid 17th century ropemakers lived and worked in the entrance of Peak Cavern near Castleton, making and supplying rope for the lead mining industry, which was very active in the county. This community flourished until the late 19th Century, when lead mining disappeared. Some of the equipment has survived and visitors can now watch demonstrations on the original site. I wonder if any more of these old “rope walks” have survived. |
Civil liberties now more scared than ever!
My recent post (September 14) which I also published on my discussion forum in another place, has produced a disturbing response from people who feel that the protection of vulnerable children must always take second place to the alleged “infringement of civil liberties” embodied in any examination of a candidate’s fitness for regular unsupervised contact with them.
It seems to be based on the principle of law that a person is innocent until proven guilty, and that any investigation which might expose any suspicion of guilt is an attack on that basic presumption.
It is a sadder, madder, badder, and more self-centred world out there than I ever dared to imagine!
For more, please see: Wordpix Forums
Edward and Mrs Simpson ousted by Starbucks
Thumbing through my collection of British stamps I came across this reminder of the uncrowned King Edward VIII, which prompted me to mention the fate of an old hotel where I have for many years liked to relax with a cup of coffee when shopping in Ipswich.
The Great White Horse in the centre of town had remained unaltered (and, I suspect, undecorated) since 1937 when a chapter of history of the British Monarchy was written there. It was there that Mrs Wallis Simpson, who later married Edward to become Duchess of Windsor, stayed while her divorce papers were being prepared by a local law firm, and it is reported that Edward also stayed there. Another couple famous for their matrimonial shenanegans who slept or dined there were Lord Nelson when he was High Steward of Ipswich, with his friend Lady Hamilton, and other visitors included King Louis XVIII of France and Charles Dickens, who used it as a setting for a scene in ‘Pickwick Papers’.
But the hotel itself just history now. It closed last year and has been converted to a block of retail outlets, with a Starbucks coffee house on the premium corner location! Such a pity, because the hotel coffee was more to my taste and only half the price charged by the smarty-pants global chain, and the well-worn leather sofas in the lounge were extremely comfortable. The ambience has been destroyed in the name of progress, just as has happened in so many other places that have been ‘improved’ to meet the demands of a changing clientele, and there appears to be no suggestion of financial hardship in this area of the market.
There is a Costa coffee lounge on the opposite corner with a big sign outside, saying “Seven out of ten people prefer Costa”. As a matter of fact, so do I.
Arthur
New Life for The Maltings
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House of tragic history
The former Poorhouse, built in the 17th century within the walls of 12th century Framlingham Castle,
Suffolk, now houses an exhibition telling the story of the people who lived there and the struggle for
power between monarchs and the lords of Framlingham, including the tragic stories of Anne Boleyn
and Catherine Howard, both married to and beheaded by Henry VIII, and the accession of
Queen Mary Tudor. The Poorhouse was still in use until 1839.
A Brief Encounter at the Chippie
It was not going to be a cordon bleu meal, but after a morning visit to the castle on the hill I was ready for something to eat, so following the popular tourist advice to ‘eat where the locals eat’ I decided to try the fish and chips café in the market square, and while waiting for my meal to arrive at the table (plaice and chips, mushy peas and a mug of tea – all for £3.50) I took stock of my surroundings.
Half a dozen women, outnumbered by small children, were huddled in the smoke-filled section of the dining area (this was before the national smoking ban) but the non-smoking end where I sat was almost empty. Outside, across the square, a crowd of men, glasses in hand, stood at the doorstep of the White Swan, a pub bedecked with the flag of St George and a banner proclaiming ‘Live Football Here.’ Possibly the husbands/fathers of the cafe customers, I thought; probably unemployed in this once-thriving area where there is now no work and little hope for their children’s future.
My reverie was interrupted by a female voice, very close. ‘Is anyone sitting here?’ it asked. It was a rhetorical question, to which I replied ‘Be my guest.’
The voice belonged to a presentable woman in her middle years, and while she was at the counter ordering her meal I was thinking about that accent. Derbyshire, certainly, but somewhat mellowed. Perhaps she, like I, lived elsewhere now but was on a nostalgic return visit here today.
Returning to the table she took her seat and gave me a quizzical look. ‘You’re a writer, aren’t you?’ she asked.
I smiled, somewhat bemused by the question. ‘Why do you say that?’ I asked.
‘I’m a people-watcher,’ she confided. ‘Did it as part of my PGCE’. It was said with an air of confidence which seemed to assume that I would know that she was referring to the Post Graduate Certificate in Education.
‘So you’re a teacher, are you?’ I returned, quite happy to play the question-and-answer game with this total stranger who had chosen to sit at my table although there were other seats available.’
‘No,’ she replied, are you?
‘I’ve been retired for some years now,’ was all I said in reply.
It became clear that she wanted to talk, to relieve some pent-up cares, and seemed comfortable using a stranger as a confidante. She had grown up near here, she told me, but moved away in her early ‘teens, married and raised a family, and was now on a brief return visit to see her aged mother who was in a nursing home and had a limited life expectancy. I was happy to lend her my ear, and within minutes we were talking like old friends.
She told me tales of her childhood visits to the castle with her father, and other incidents in her life, some of them quite personal, almost as if feeding me with material for an article, and then,.
‘Books or newspapers?‘, she asked, quite suddenly.
I had not answered her initial question, so why did she assume?
‘Yes’, I replied, determined to maintain the enigma.
She went on to say that her late husband was a writer. ‘He died a little over a year ago,’ she told me, and then ‘he was often lost in thought; I saw that same expression on your face when I walked in here.’
If this was a chat-up line it had a compelling tone of innocence about it. It was true that I had already started writing this article in my head before she walked in, but could it have been so obvious? Perhaps, to a ‘people-watcher’, it was.
More was to follow. ‘He was a keen photographer too,’ she told me, and he just loved steam trains‘.
This was becoming eerie. Too close for comfort. She had just described more of my interests, and when the conversation turned to her current use of the Internet, bells started ringing in my tiny brain. Everything she had said could have been gleaned from my notes posted on several websites and discussion groups. My photograph also appears in several places. Had she recognized me and was that what prompted her to play this delightful game? For a split second I felt like voicing my suspicion, but it was more enjoyable to play it this way.
We talked for an hour and a half until, as if on a signal from a ghostly colliery hooter announcing the end of shift, we rose simultaneously from the table, said in unison ‘It’s been nice meeting you’ and walked off in opposite directions, both smiling. Two strangers who shared an unplanned meal and exchanged perhaps more confidences than intended but will, I am sure, both treasure the memory of this brief encounter.
I’ll also remember the meal: the fish was a thin, tasteless, frozen fillet. I have enjoyed an abundance of fresh fish since living near the coast, but this café was about as far away from the sea as is possible in England. But the mushy peas were a real treat and brought back memories of a different time.
© 2006 Arthur Loosley
anglianwriter
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